A long pause. “Bullshit. What else?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know damn well I’m unreliable. I’m not acculturated, I still think like a cop, even if you’re right and the job overlap is significant. I’m unreliable from a departmental point of view: I’ve got the wrong instincts. And this isn’t a Hollywood movie where delicate operations get handed to maverick outsiders. So. What aren’t you telling me?”
Smith shrugged. “I told them you’d see through it,” he said, glancing at the door. Then he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a photograph. “When did you last see this woman?”
“Who—oh. Her. What’s she got to do with this?” Mike’s mouth went dry.
Smith glared at him, clearly irritated. “Now you’re the one who’s playing games. You’ve been through the clearance process, we know what color underpants you wear, we interviewed your ex-wife, we grabbed your home phone records.” He waved the photograph. “Confession is good for the soul, Mike. Level with me and I’ll level with you. How well do you know this woman?”
Shit. Should have guessed they’d figure it out. “There’s not much to tell.” Mike struggled to drag his scattered thoughts back together. “I met her a few years ago. She’s a journalist, she was doing a story about drug testing for the glossy she worked for. It worked out really well at first. Did a couple of dates, began to get serious.” How much do they want to know? It was still a sore point for him. “Yes, we did sleep together.”
“Mike. Mike.” Smith shook his head. “That’s not what this is about, not really, we’re not the East German Stasi.”
“Well, what did you want to know?” Mike glared at him. “She’s a journalist, Colonel. She wasn’t faking it. I picked her up at the office a couple of times. I didn’t have a fucking clue she was anything else! Let me remind you that I didn’t know the Clan existed, back then. None of us did. I don’t think she did, either.”
“I’m not—I wasn’t—” For a moment Smith looked embarrassed. “Carry on. Tell me in your own words.”
“It didn’t work out,” Mike said slowly. “We were talking about taking a vacation together. Maybe even moving in. But then something spooked her. We had a couple of rows—she’s a liberal, we got bickering over some stupid shit. And then—” He shook his head. “It didn’t work out.”
“How long have you known she was involved with the Clan?” asked Smith.
Mike shook his head. “Not known. Wasn’t sure.” But Pete was, he realized. And what Matthias said—“Listen, it’s over between us. Two, three years ago. I didn’t put two and two together about the woman who Source Greensleeves kept ranting about until he waved it in my face, and even then—how many journalists called Miriam are there?”
Smith put the photograph away. Then he nodded at Mike. “How would you characterize your relationship with her?” he asked.
“Turbulent. And over.” Mike reached over to the bedside stand and picked up a glass of water. “If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, it won’t work.”
“And maybe I’m not thinking what you think I’m thinking.” Smith suddenly grinned. “Honey traps were an old Stasi trick, and they didn’t work consistently—in this situation, the collateral damage from blowback if it goes wrong is too high. But can you confirm that you do—did—know Miriam Beckstein, journalist, last employed by The Industry Weatherman?”
Mike nodded.
“Well, there’s your explanation! Now do you see why you’re needed?”
Mike nodded warily. “What do you want me to do?”
“Well, like Dr. James told you two weeks ago, we want you to set up a spy ring in Niejwein. That hasn’t changed. What has changed is that we now have a list of starting points for you. It’s a very short list, and she’s right at the top of it. If we’re right—if she’s a recent recruit, dragged in by her long-lost family—she may be a potential asset. As long as she’s inside the Clan, that is: she’s not a lot of use to us over here, except as another mule.”
Mike shivered momentarily, visualizing a collar bomb around a throat he’d buried his face in. “When?” he asked.
“We know roughly where the royal palace is, in Niejwein: it overlaps with Queens. Niejwein isn’t a big city, it won’t be hard for you to get there with the right disguise and cover story. Which, by the way, is that you’re a Clan member from the west coast. It won’t stand up to scrutiny, but from what we know about Niejwein it won’t come in for much unless you try and play it for real. They’re pretty primitive over there. And we’ve got an extra edge I haven’t mentioned. We captured a courier last week.”
“You did?” Mike sat up.
“And his dispatches.” Smith frowned at Mike. “You don’t need to know the details. Anyway, it seems your girlfriend is going up in the world. She’s due to be the guest of honor at a royal reception in two weeks time, and the document taken from the courier includes what appears to be an invitation to a country cousin.” Smith looked smug for a moment. “One of the things the Clan are good at is postal security—which works against them at times like this. As long as they don’t know we’ve got couriers working for us, you’re in the clear.”
“Hey, are you telling me . . .”
“Yes. You’re going to crash a royal garden party and make her an offer she can’t refuse.”
A week of twelve-hour days in a training camp on the edge of a sprawling army base couldn’t prepare Mike Fleming for the experience of his first world-walk. On the contrary: he’d been led to expect a glossy high-tech send-off, and instead what he was getting looked very much like a ringside seat at an execution.
It was nearly noon. His personal trainer, who he knew only as John, had woken him at six o’clock and rushed him through breakfast. John had a halting grasp of hochsprache, but insisted Mike speak nothing else to him, playing dumb whenever Mike lapsed into English out of frustration or in search of some un-mapped concept. Then he’d been taken on a tour of Facilities. A quiet woman who looked like she worked weekends in Macy’s kitted him out in what they figured would pass for local costume—no cod-medieval “men in tights” nonsense, but rough woolen fabric, leggings, and an overtunic and leather boots.
Next on his itinerary was the armory. A hatchet-faced warrant officer checked him out and told him what was what in English. “This is your sword. Nearest we’ve got to it is a cutlass, note the curve in the blade—forget point work. If you ever did any fencing at school, forget that too. This is strictly for edge work, German-style. Oh, and if you have to use it you’re probably dead. We don’t have a couple of months to work you up to competent. Luckily for you, you’re also allowed one of these.” He held up a nylon holster, already laden with a black automatic pistol. “Glock 20C, fifteen-round magazine, ten mill.” Just like the handguns “James Morgan” had been buying and, presumptively, a standard Clan issue. “You have two spare magazines. I take it you’ve checked out on one.” In answer to Mike’s mute head shake, he swore and glared at John: “What is it with you folks? Are you trying to get him killed?”